I had a friend who measured sterns when he was in college. He was slapped, punched out by an irate boyfriend, and finally jailed for indecent boatwrightery -- a hanging offense in Illinois at the time.

My last post to this thread did not show up. Or else it was deleted. But that's inconceivable, because it was so valuable and apt. Not to metion, ept. I demand its reinstatement! If it does not appear within 24 hours, I shall take stern measures.

Hang by my feet??? Do you take me for a bat or a sloth??? And as for lopping off my head, well, I will just say that if I don't hang together I'll just have to hang seperately!

(I am an English major. I hold a BA in English literature, which actually means "literature in English" and not just the literature of England. Moreover, I even had (shuddeer!!) graduate-level work in the field.)

Amos, I think you mean "riparian": riparian, adj." referring to the banks of a river or stream. As in "riparian rights", or the right of the owner of the land forming the bank of a river or stream to use water from the waterway on the land, such as for drinking water or irrigation. State laws vary as to the extent of the rights, but controversy exists as to the extent of riparian rights for diversion of water to sell to others, for industrial purposes, to mine the land under the water for gravel or minerals or for docks and marinas. Consistent in these questions is that a riparian owner may not act to deny riparian rights to the owner of downstream properties along the waterway, meaning the water may not be dammed and channelled away from its natural course.

Sorry, Mom. I guess I have to do all the work around here. I mean, all the work that you don't do to keep the kids quasi-healthy, pseudo-sane, and able to put up at least a front of normalicy. And I know how hard that is, what with Amos living in Southern California and almost certainly involved in those cults and things down there and Stilly living in Texas and Bee-Dubya still living in a rotten log in a swamp and Bunn living in (God help us all!) Scotland and Weehawken living in someplace and RR in Minnesota and Khandu owing me money and the Robotussians ready to invade Earth and EVERYTHING.

But it's okay, Mom. I've called on the Idaho Legion to help protect Earth from the Tussies and they've set up the twin Bofors gun on the top of Howard Mountain. It's probably just as well that they don't have ammunition for it. They have armed themselves though, opening the Arms Room at the Hovel and distributing the deadly Wacky Wackers stored therein. And, Mom? They're doing all this to protect ME from being "abducted, seducted, subducted and/or tapeducted by them godless commie fascist pinko creepy impolite egg-suckin' puppy-kickin' unAmerican sicko Californians...I mean Rubbertushians," as Special Imperial Generalissimo Field Marshal Undergropingferher Sam "Zitnose" Pamplemousse, the local Legion Commandante, said last night when they were hauling that Bofors gun up the mountain. That was just before the guys hauling the gun pulled Zitnose off of it and tossed him into south-flowing Icewater Creek, just north of Skullfracture Falls. But don't worry about him, Mom; he was pretty loosened up and anyway, you know what they say about God protecting fools and drunks and so you know that Zitnose had double protection.

It has now become clear to me exactly what it is that they do with those urine samples collected in doctors' offices, for drug testing, and so on. In fact, the additional income corporations and other institutions get for used urine could well be what keeps them (you'll pardon the expression) afloat. I wonder, though, what it's posted under in the accounting offices -- accounts receivable? accounts payable? general ledger? And how do you handle the inventory?

Prsident George W Bush was scheduled to visit the Methodist Church outside Washington as part of his campaign. Bush's campaign manager made a visit to the Bishop, and said to him, "We've been getting a lot of bad publicity among Methodists because of Bush's position on stem cell research and the like.

We'd gladly make a contribution to the church of $100,000 if during your sermon you'd say the President is a saint."

The Bishop thinks it over for a few moments and finally says, "The Church is in desperate need of funds and i will agree to do it."

Bush shows up looking especially pompous and smug the following Sunday, and as the sermon progresses the Bishop begins his homily: "George Bush is petty, a self-avsorbeed hypocrite and a nitwit. He is a liar, a cheat, and a low-intelligence weasel. He has lied about his military record and had the gall to put himself in a jet plane landing on a carrier posing before a banner stating "Mission Accomplished." He invaded a country for oil and money, and is using it to lie to the American people. He is the worst example of a Methodist i've ever personally known. But compared to Dick Cheney and the rest of his cabinet, George Bush is a saint."

Hope you enjoyed that.

This morning received a yahoo alert informing me of a high serverity. the blackworm is scheduled to strike feb 3rd perhaps at first light. Then its Bud lite, forever. (oh did i say that) sick sick sick...ok

I can manage the dog droppings, but there's no way I'm sending you dog pee, Rapaire. These girls are too close to the ground and too fast to catch anything. If I were to seriously collect any human materials I'd be using one of those domed septic tank/methane chambers and using the gas to cook over.

During the late unpleasantness between the South and the Yankees, the Niter Board of the Confederacy requested that Southern women save their "chamber-lye" for the making of niter. The old urine (which is what "chamber-lye" or "chamber-ley" is) would be collected and taken to a powder mill to be turned into gunpowder to shoot Northern troops.

Nothing special about the urine, just that the men were off in Army and the women were at home, patriotically mictruating for victory.

(By the way, the book Foxfire 5 has a nice section on how to make your own gunpowder. One of the ingredients is urine, the older and staler the better.)

Amos, I just buried a bunch of dog droppings in my compost. You can have them for alternative fuel any time you need them. I'll double wrap the plastic bag in the box so the post office doesn't get upset. Where do you want me to mail them?

Bunnhabain, you do me great disservice. It was NOT vaseline. It was bunker fuel. We were preparing an alternative method of propulsion to reform the planet's dependency on oil. But that was before we heard about Rapaire's mis-connected phone call. These guys are serious and this could be important.

As is my wont, this morning I took my quiche and sausage and drink down to my office and checked by email. After I had finished, I was going to check out the 'Cat and awaken Mom to another beautiful day.

While I was reading my email a Strange, Hostile Force had taken me offline. I rebooted the modem and router three times, and the PC once. Nothing.

I called the ISP support number, and a voice said, "Do not resist. It is futile. Your new brain implant is ready. Please come quietly, George, or we will pulverize your planet."

Well, I was puzzled, especially since my name isn't "George." I replied, astutely I thought, "Huh? My name's not George." And the voice on the phone said, "Is this Washington, DC, Pennsylvania 6-1600?" I said, "No, this is a phone in Pocatello, Idaho."

There was a pause and the voice said, "Aw, shit, Sam, you screwed up the phone number AGAIN! Goddammit, you stupid piece of Rurotarian...." and hung up.

I debated with myself over calling the number they'd mentioned but decided against it. I really didn't want to get involved, and besides, I had to get ready for work.

I know--I heard him interviewed somewhere--Dick Cavett? I don't think Johnny would have given him time to really talk about it, and this was a long interview--and I read it after that. It was interesting, but in the long run, I think needed a big grain of salt. Close Encounters of the Third Kind came out not long after this book, as I recall. Probably left Streiber in its dust.

1) Do not wear a tinfoil hat. It may reflect the abductor ray back to the spaceship and short something out which may result in an unwanted release of antimatter into the local atmosphere. Trust us, you don't want that to happen.

2) If abducted by a species lacking a proboscis, bear in mind that they've probably heard the "No nose is good nose!" line about seven to the thirteenth power times and it's no longer funny.

3) Don't expect to be asked to stay for dinner. Eat a light meal before going to the abduction.

4) Observe the "No Smoking" signs. If the aliens want you to smoke, they'll set you on fire.

I draw the line at outhouses. You guys, take your funky brickbats and shit mortar outside. No one wants to eat their bedtime snack and drink their chamomile tea with you two going hammer-and-tongs and abusing Shakespeare in the process. Geez, Louise. . .